Night of the Zombie Chickens (11 page)

M
y mother must have told my dad about our little talk because after he gets home from work, he finds me in the TV room. I've already hidden the wig in my closet. I changed the hiding place three times and I'm still worried my mother will find it. It makes me so nervous I can barely focus on the TV show. I don't think Margaret suspects anything, but what if she starts to piece things together? What if Alyssa figures it out? After all, I'm the one who pointed the finger at her. I just wanted to borrow the wig for a couple of weeks to make people mad at her. No big deal, right? But suddenly it does feel like a very big deal.

And what would my parents think about what I did? A chill runs through me. My dad always lectures Derek and me about how some kids take the wrong path in life and end up as deadbeats, and how we have to be careful not to do that. Is this what he means? Am I a future deadbeat?

My dad claps his hands together and gives me a big smile. “So, are you shooting another scene for your movie this weekend? Who's the zombie this time?”

I stare at the TV. “I'm not working on that anymore.”

My dad looks pretend surprised. “You mean you've finished it? That's great!”

I yank a big pillow onto my lap and sink my chin onto it. “No, I deleted the whole thing. It was fun to work on when I was little, but now it's just kind of stupid.”

That's a big, fat lie. I hadn't really thought about deleting my movie until that second. It sure gets my dad's attention, though. Lately, I seem addicted to saying whatever will hurt or scare my parents the most. I'm not sure why. I guess, deep down, I kind of like the attention, even though I pretend not to.

His face actually goes pale. “You deleted it?” he repeats. He collapses in a chair. “Kate, are you serious?”

“Well, I'm going to delete it,” I mutter, “as soon as I go upstairs.”

My dad gives a big sigh of relief. It's nice to know
he
cares about my movie, at least.

“Kate, you've worked so hard on
Night of the Zombie Chickens
and it's almost done. Why would you want to throw it all away? And wouldn't Alyssa be mad if you did that?”

Now he's fishing. My mother has clearly debriefed him.

I shrug. “Alyssa could not care less.”

He quietly nods. “Did you girls have a fight?”

I pretend to be fascinated by SpongeBob SquarePants on TV, even though I've seen the episode three times already. “It doesn't matter.”

Of course it matters, as in life or death. My dad's not stupid. He leans forward. “You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. I used to be such a tough kid. Hardly anything made me cry. I cried when our cat got run over. I cried when I fell out of a tree and broke my wrist. Otherwise, I pretty much sucked it up. Now, just hearing the worry in my dad's voice brings tears to my eyes. A big part of me wants to blubber on his shoulder and say dumb things like, “What is going on?” Or maybe, “What did I do wrong?”

But I can't. I can't even quite look him in the eye, because I'm afraid he'll somehow read the truth in my face. Now that I've taken the Cute Red Wig and gotten Alyssa in trouble, I feel like I'm perched at the top of a slippery hill, with a huge swamp of mud at the bottom. And it feels like I'm sliding down inch by inch.

Anyway, how can I trust my father enough to cry on his shoulder when he's keeping a secret from us? All I can think of is Lydia's dad and how he lied to his whole family until he got caught. I feel guilty for even thinking my dad might do something like that. But what if he is?

He stands up and tousles my hair. “If you decide you want to talk, I'll be in the den. I, uh...” He hesitates. “I need to make some phone calls.”

I nod, staring as hard as I can at the TV. More phone calls. No, I definitely can't talk to my dad.

He pauses at the door. “Just do me one favor. Promise me you won't delete the movie. No need to be in a rush. You don't want to do something you might regret later.”

I give a big, noisy sigh. “Okay, fine.”

A couple of minutes after my dad leaves, Derek shows up. He plops down in a chair and stares at me like I'm a lab specimen. “What's the matter with you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You've been acting weird lately. And mom says you had a fight with Alyssa and you're not working on your movie anymore.”

I sit up straight. “She told you that?”

“Kind of. I overheard her talking about it with Dad.”

I give him a withering look. “You should stop listening at doors.”

Derek shrugs. “So is it true? Did you guys have a fight?”

I eye him suspiciously. Sometimes, Derek and I get along fine. But other times, he calls me names and teases me and takes junk out of my room and bugs me until I want to scream. So usually I do. At him. Then, we both get in trouble.

“What do you care?”

“Sheesh, I was just wondering. You don't have to bite my head off. Alyssa's a dumb butt anyway. And that girl that played your last zombie? I had to put earplugs in, she was so loud. She couldn't even act.”

“How do you know?”

“I was watching from the window upstairs. She was running around, screaming like an idiot.”

I smile a little, despite myself. He's right; Lydia and Alyssa are just two loud, dumb-butt girls. “Yeah, she was pretty bad,” I agree.

I steal a glance at Derek. He was watching us from a window? Boy, he must have been really bored. Sometimes I forget that living way out here also affects him. Maybe that's why he's always bugging me, asking to help with my movie.

“Wanna play Mario?” Derek asks.

“Sure.”

I'm a little touched when he gives me a big grin and jumps up to plug it in. He seems pretty excited just because I'm going to play video games with him. “Prepare to get creamed,” I advise him.

“In your dreams,” he retorts.

We grin at each other as he throws me a remote. It feels good to have a truce with one person in my life, even if I know it can't last.

M
y plan has worked better than I could have imagined—or worse than I could have dreamed, depending on how you look at it. The next day, kids start heckling Alyssa in the hallway. “Where's the wig, Jensen?” People stare at her as she walks by. Lydia and her crew ignore her. Alyssa doesn't even show up in the lunchroom, which means she's probably hiding in a bathroom stall, crying and eating her sandwich.

I keep telling myself that she's learning a valuable lesson. No pain, no gain. You need to walk a mile in someone else's shoes.

It seems like everybody wants to talk about it. Even Margaret shakes her head at lunch and murmurs, “Poor Alyssa. I wonder why she took it.”

She glances sideways at me, and for a moment I'm sure she's guessed everything. Then I decide she's just waiting for me to say something.

“Took what?” Doris asks. She glances up from her biology book and shoves a potato chip in her mouth. Doris's mind must be like an underground cave, vast and soundproof. Nothing sinks in unless it sounds scientific.

Sighing noisily, I reach over and slam shut her book. Anything to change the subject. “Doris, you cannot study during lunch hour.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “Why not?”

“Doris, look around you. Do you see a single other person with a book open?”

She peers around, still frowning.

“Lunch is for socializing,” I go on. “You're supposed to talk to people. Have fun.”

“No one wants to talk to me.”

She says it matter-of-factly. A few weeks ago I would have shrugged it off, but now she can't fool me. I know how much work it takes to convince yourself and everyone else that being ignored doesn't bother you.

I mock glare at her. “Why do you think Margaret and I are sitting here?”

“Because you don't have anywhere else to sit.” Her voice is so calm it makes my insides hurt—for Doris and myself and all the other girls who have to pretend it doesn't hurt and that we don't care.

Margaret inhales sharply. “Doris, how can you say that?”

“Yeah, Doris, thanks a lot.” My voice comes out weak. I'm ashamed that there's a little bit of truth in what she said.

“Okay, fine.” Doris shoves up her glasses. “Sorry. I can still talk and study my book at the same time.”

I realize suddenly that it's not about studying. I'm taking Doris's security blanket away. She doesn't know what to do without a book nearby. It's her escape when things get uncomfortable.

Still, sometimes we all need hard medicine. Doris has been helping me a lot with my math homework. Now I'm going to return the favor. Welcome to Social Skills
101
.

“When you're staring into a book,” I say slowly, “it makes it seem like you don't care. Like you're not listening. And usually you're
not
listening.”

“Yes I am!”

“Then how come you're the only one in the entire school who doesn't know that Alyssa Jensen took the...” I flinch inwardly but force out the words. “That she stole the Cute Red Wig?”

Doris's eyes grow large. “She stole the wig?”

“Well, she maybe took it,” Margaret says carefully. “You're innocent until proved guilty, right, Kate?”

Margaret is starting to unnerve me.

“So no more books at lunch,” I go on, ignoring her. “Trust me, Doris, you're plenty smart already.”

Doris shrugs. “Okay, so what should we talk about?”

We all stare at each other. Nothing kills a conversation faster than asking that question.

“You know, I really feel like seeing a movie,” Margaret says. “I love movies.” She shoots a sideways glance at me and I know immediately what's going on.

What Margaret's really doing is asking if I want to see a movie. If I sound enthusiastic, then she'll figure it's safe to suggest we go see one. If I ignore what she said or change the subject, then she'll drop it. Since she didn't ask and I didn't say no, we avoid all the awkwardness. I have to hand it to Margaret; she understands how to say stuff by not saying it. Unlike Doris.

“Yeah, let's go see a movie Friday night,” Doris blurts. “I heard
Poisoned Pie
is playing at the Westmark. You guys want to go?”

If it's not in an equation, Doris doesn't get it.

“Uh,
Poisoned Pie
? I don't think I've heard of that.” I sip on the organic apple juice my mother packed in my lunch, trying to buy time. If I go to a movie with them, will it cement my low social standing forever? I like Margaret and Doris, but I have to be honest with myself, too. I don't want to be unpopular. I don't want to be the butt of mean jokes. I don't want Paul Corbett and Blake Nash calling me
Crapkate
all through high school.

My head swirls and suddenly I'm bone tired. My life feels like a chess game where I have to figure out what move to make five turns in advance. I'm sick of worrying about who's my friend and who's not, and what people are saying about me. I'm sick of pretending to ignore Alyssa while watching her from the corner of my eye. It's all too much work. Besides, I haven't done a single fun thing in weeks.

“Sure,” I say loudly. “Why not? Let's go to a movie.”

Margaret beams at me, and even Doris lifts her upper lip a fraction.

I wish I could say I feel great, but I don't. The organic apple juice is already turning into vinegar in my stomach.

O
ur boring suburban town is like every other boring suburban town in the U.S. It has a long street crammed full of fast-food joints, chain motels, gas stations, and bowling alleys. The Westmark Theater sits like a fake crown jewel in the middle of all these McFoods and McSleeps. It has a fancy marquee that glows red and yellow, with the name
Westmark
lit by hundreds of little bulbs. A few of the bulbs in the “A” burned out once, so for a while it read
Westmurk.
It was such a perfect name for a horror flick that I shot footage of the sign one night before they got around to fixing it. I'm saving it for my next movie. At least, I was. That was back when I thought
Night of the Zombie Chickens
might have a sequel.

I end up arriving late, which is only semi on purpose, so the lobby is almost empty. We quickly buy our tickets and popcorn and slip into the theater. The trailers have already started, so we stumble to our seats in the dark. I scrunch down, feeling the familiar tingle of excitement I get whenever I see a movie. I always pay attention to who's directing it and I usually tell myself, “One day that will be my name,” but now I just look away and noisily slurp on my soda.

It feels funny not working on my movie anymore. Sometimes, I still catch myself worrying about the ending. I have to remind myself it doesn't matter, and then I get this funny feeling, like someone poked a hole in my stomach and forgot to plug it.

Luckily, movies are great for making you forget your problems. I take a big handful of popcorn and stuff it in my mouth as the opening credits roll.

Poisoned Pie
is rated
PG
-13 so, depending on the person, it's kind of scary or it's kind of funny. It's about a woman who owns a bakery and makes fantastic pies. Everybody in town is crazy about them. But then she moves her business out of her home and into an old warehouse on the edge of town. Suddenly, weird things start happening. A woman bites into an apple pie and winds up with a piece of intestine dangling from her mouth. A greedy little boy sticks his whole face into a pie, only the filling turns out to be bloody, not cherry. The blood is definitely top quality, I'll give them that. As I watch it ooze off the screaming boy's face, I can't help wondering what ingredients they used to give it such a slick shine.

I quickly learn that Margaret is a screamer and Doris is a laugher. It's the first time I've heard Doris laugh, and at first I think she's trying to be creepy to go along with the movie, but it turns out that really is how she laughs. So when something scary happens, Margaret screams and Doris makes a sound like a goose with a head cold. That sets me off giggling. Margaret leans over and nudges me.

“Don't you think it's scary?”

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. The truth is, I can only give it a C-plus on my fear factor scale.

“What are you laughing at?” she whispers.

I bite my lip. Suddenly, Doris lets loose with another cackle. I can't help it, I start giggling again. Margaret looks at Doris, then back at me. Pretty soon she's giggling, too, and then we're all laughing so loud that we almost get kicked out.

At the end of the movie I scan the audience, more out of habit than anything. Nobody there I know. We play a few arcade games in the lobby and then decide to walk over to Twisters, a burger-and-ice-cream joint. I know there's a good chance we'll be spotted, but I'm starving and I don't care. It's strange, but all those things that we used to poke fun at—Margaret's red hair and crooked teeth, Doris's lumpy brown clothes and deadpan voice—I hardly even notice now. What I notice more is Margaret's funny, oddball humor, or how Doris will explain math homework three times over until I get it. I must seem like a mental slug to her, but she never laughs when I mess up. She just pushes up her glasses and starts explaining all over again.

“I felt so sorry for Nadine, the baker,” Margaret says as we lounge in a booth. “When she found that dead body, I thought she was going to flip out and start chopping it up.”

“Yeah, that was funny,” Doris says. “But that time portal the undead janitor used?” She shakes her head. “Their explanation of dark energy was totally inaccurate.”

I think about it. “They had good blood,” I say at last.

Doris starts cackling, and that sets off me and Margaret. I take a bite of my burger as Doris noisily sucks up the last of her soda. At that moment, Alyssa walks in with her mother. For a split second, Alyssa's eyes lock with mine and then we both quickly look away. I feel a rush of blood rising up my neck and into my face. Doris is still loudly sucking up drops from the bottom of her glass. I'm tempted to grab the straw and tie it in a knot. I wish Alyssa had come in a moment earlier when we were all laughing.

“There's Alyssa,” Doris says in her deadpan voice.

Margaret glances over her shoulder. All the tables in front of us are full, which means Alyssa and her mother will have to walk right by us toward the back. My heart starts to pound. Mrs. Jensen will probably stop and ask why I haven't been over to the house lately. Alyssa is probably already embarrassed that we saw her come in with her mother. Clearly, no one wants to hang with her. What if her mother suggests they sit with us?

Talk about awkward. I stuff a french fry in my mouth, trying to think of what to do.

“I heard you're making a movie, Kate,” I dimly hear Margaret say. “Something about zombies?”

Doris pauses. “Really?”

Then, a true miracle. An old couple up front stands to leave. As I watch Alyssa and her mother slide into their booth, something squeezes my heart. This was Alyssa's and my favorite place to eat.

“Kate?”

I turn back to Margaret, my mind hazy. “Huh?”

“You're making a movie?” she prompts.

“I was. But...” I sip my drink. “I lost interest. It's kind of stupid. I mean, it's not like anyone would want to see it.”

“You're making a movie?” Doris repeats. “Wow. That's really...” She trails off and slurps noisily on her soda again.

I can't help wondering what she thinks it is—weird, stupid, unscientific?

Margaret looks slightly horrified, like I just said I was having a body part amputated. She leans forward and actually grips the table.

“It's not stupid. I mean, if it's something you love, then you should stick with it.” Her voice rises a notch. “Don't let other people talk you out of going after what you want.”

When I stare at her, she blushes and mumbles, “That's what my mother always tells me.”

I never thought about Margaret
going after
something. She always seems so quiet. I'm about to ask what it is she wants when Doris finally gives up on finding another drop of liquid at the bottom of her drink.

“I think making a movie is really...” She tips the cup into her mouth and chews on a mouthful of melting ice—c
runch
crunch crunch
. “It's really impressive.”

I glance at her, surprised. That isn't the word I was expecting.

“You don't think it's lame?”

“Are you kidding?” Margaret gazes at me through her round glasses. “I don't know anyone our age who's doing something that cool.”

And then I feel it, a catch in my throat, the early warning signal for tears on the way. Unbelievable. I stuff a handful of fries in my mouth and focus on the delicious, hot, salty grease. It works; the tears back off. Still, it feels like Doris's and Margaret's words have jarred something loose inside me. Maybe I am giving up too easily. If I quit just because people make fun of it, then it's like they've won somehow. They're telling me what I should or shouldn't do. And I hate it when people tell me what to do.

I smile at Margaret. “Maybe you're right.” Inside, my heart is soaring at the thought that my movie might not be dead. Then, I remember—I have no star and no ending.

“Margaret is always right,” Doris says matter-of-factly. “Except in her choice of reading material.”

Trust Doris to have the last, bizarre word. It feels good to all laugh together, until Alyssa turns and glances our way. My smile fades and I can't help wondering if maybe she thinks we're laughing at her.